Free Dead Girl Walking by Linda Joy Singleton Page B

sliced and diced into ready-to-share pieces.
    Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for organ donation. It’s a great program that helps lots of people. This girl I knew, Betina Cortez, was alive because of an organ transplant. After I’d welcomed her to school with an anime-themed basket, we sat together at lunch and she’d confided all about her operation.
    That night I’d gone home and asked my father if he would give me a kidney if I needed one. “Right or left?” he joked. Then, because he always made a lesson out of everything, he pulled out his driver’s license and showed me his signed donor card. I pulled out my own license and showed him my signed card. He patted me on the back and said, “That’s my Ambaby.” (A goofy nickname … don’t ask!)
    But no more crying or feeling sorry for myself, I vowed. I was getting out of here. Only when I tried the door—it was locked.
    Unbelievable!
    What kind of family locks their daughter in her bedroom? Totally barbaric! I mean, what if I had to go to the bathroom? Did they expect me to use a bedpan or resort to something worse?
    I pounded on the door and screamed, “Let me out!” over and over. My voice cracked, but fury gave me energy. After about five minutes, I heard footsteps.
    “Shut up, Leah,” the brother ordered. “I’m watching a DVD.”
    “Open the door.”
    “Forget it.”
    “Come on … ” What was his name, anyway? “Let me out and I’ll shut up.”
    “No can do. Doctor’s orders.”
    “That’s ridiculous! Why can’t I get out?”
    “They’re afraid you’ll try again … you know, to kill yourself. Mental cases can’t be trusted,” he added with a snicker.
    “I’m not mental! You don’t understand!”
    “I understand a lot, and know better than to trust you.”
    “Why are you being so awful to me?”
    “Payback, dear sister.”
    “But … But I need to use the bathroom. If you don’t let me out it could get ugly in here.”
    “What’s the problem? Use your own bathroom. Man, you really are psycho.” Then I heard his footsteps fading away.
    That’s when I discovered that the door I thought was a closet actually led to a spacious bathroom—with gold-flecked tile on the double-sink, a glass-encased shower, and a deep spa tub. A plush white bathrobe hung on a wall hook, next to a cupboard filled with rolled towels and a wide array of bath products. On the opposite wall was an enormous walk-in closet, with a warren of shelves full of folded clothes, rows of name-brand shoes, and racks of designer clothes.
    Again I wondered, why would someone with this princess life try to kill herself? What more could she want? She already had a great body, mega-popularity, and the financial means to get into any college she desired. Sure, her family wasn’t perfect, but then whose family was? Her brother was an obnoxious gangster punk, but at least Leah only had to put up with one sibling—not triplets.
    So why attempt suicide? It just didn’t make sense. Could it have been an accident? Although how could anyone accidentally swallow pills? Maybe it was something more sinister? Did Leah have an enemy who stealthily slipped her an overdose?
    Doubtful. Even in my wild “dramagination,” as Alyce called my exaggerated ideas, I didn’t think Leah’s suicide was a murder attempt. Her brother said she’d stolen the pills, and even her best friend Jessica mentioned that Leah had been acting distant. Plotting her own death, I thought grimly.
    No one tried to kill Leah … except Leah.
    I really did need to use the bathroom. Shutting the door behind me, I sat on Leah’s porcelain throne, my thoughts shifting to my own problems. Top of my “Do or Die” list was to get myself over to Community Central Hospital right away. Since I was in Leah’s body, there was a good chance she was stuck in mine, waiting for me to arrive so we could switch back. We’d laugh, hug, and say how happy we were to be ourselves again. We’d become best friends